


Guilty Potential

by SueDeeNimh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Early Season 12 Spoilers, Multi, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 17:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16179533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueDeeNimh/pseuds/SueDeeNimh
Summary: She hasn't gone this long without sex since she was sixteen, and it's fucking with her head so bad.





	Guilty Potential

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to get into this fandom in the first place because of the goddamn incest, ok—shut up SHUT UP! I couldn't even get to the point of writing any actual porn, I'm so ashamed of myself. Written while S12 was airing and only now seeing the light of day.

After those first, all-important hugs, the welcome-back-from-being-dead hugs, Mary doesn't really know how to touch her sons, so she doesn't, much. She doesn't have the history, the casual memories of wiping a thousand runny noses, of sending them off to school with a peck on the forehead, to make it easy to transfer that kind of affection in the present; and what memories she does have are of a four-year-old whose contours she can barely pick out, in this man nearing forty. Sam is even worse: babies all look relatively the same, and though she was sure she could've picked out her baby from any number of other people's, that didn't translate to knowing what thirty years would do to him. Dean was barely recognizable; Sam wasn't at all, except that he did look something like John used to.

Both her sons resemble her dead husband more than her memories of them, and they're very adult, and male, and _there_ every waking minute of her day, just them and a derelict angel, rattling around in this underground sepulcher for the dead—and she hasn't gone this long without sex since she was sixteen, and it's _fucking with her head so bad._

When she does touch, when she puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, he looks like he did rubbing down John's car, or eating pie: near-orgasmic. He's too-obviously spent his whole life starving for it, his mother's touch, and the depth of the need scares her at the same time as she wants to hold onto him and fix it and not let go until that gaping hole in him's been filled. 

She's never backed off in response to being scared before. Not for long. 

She wonders how long now before she plunges into a deeper pool than she can climb out of. 

Sam is awkward and quietly helpful towards her, politely respecting her space and memorizing how she takes her coffee, her eggs, picking up new clothes for her every time she expresses a preference. She catches him reordering the main library in the bunker after she makes an offhand complaint about their filing system. 

It's both adorable and a little creepy, and if it was some strange guy trying to court her she'd laugh and put him down hard, but she can't because it's _Sam,_ and she doesn't have any better idea what their relationship should look like now than he does. 

She doesn't belong here. This is so screamingly obvious that she can't even say it without feeling silly. Every hunter knows that what's dead should stay dead, and knowing she got a special dispensation from God's semi-evil sister doesn't change thirty years. All she knows is that she thought it would be better when they got Sam back, this sense of claustrophobia and dislocation, and instead it just got harder to ignore.

Dean and Sam seem to have settled into normal routines with a phlegmatic lack of regard for Sam's recent kidnapping and torture that borders on absent-minded; she shudders to think what it says about their lives, if this barely registers as a thing to be upset about, either before or after Castiel wipes the physical evidence from their bodies. 

She begins to understand what Dean had been trying to tell her, that the two of them were all each other had. Certainly they didn't seem to feel any need to connect with the outside world much, once they were back in the old Men of Letters repository. (Dean calls it _home._ She can't bear to, even in her thoughts.) 

For all the hesitancy between herself and her sons, Sam and Dean touched each other easily, continually, affectionately. The space between them was a living, dynamic thing, shrinking and growing with the ease of thirty years' of living in each other's pockets; the way they rolled out of bed the morning after they'd rescued Sam, in a motel room a day's drive still from Kansas, up and packing in a careless choreography of tasks, told her more than words ever could, that this had been their life. They looked and moved and sounded like an old married couple. 

Back at the bunker, she catches Dean teasing Sam. Neither realize at first that she's walked into the room. "…What do they call that, Sammy, the one where some poor fucks don't know they're related when they meet, and they wind up thinking they're in love or some shit…"

"Genetic sexual attraction," Sam says, sounding embarrassed and irritated. "And they hadn't even done that study yet when Mom died, so shut the fuck up about it, seriously, Dean…"

She tried to back out of the room without calling attention to herself, but whatever perverse luck was in charge of this clusterfuck caused her to bump the doorframe, and they both jerked their heads around to her, Sam looking hangdog guilty and Dean trying too hard for a save—"I didn't mean anything, Mom, sorry you heard that, I was just…Sam…um, hey, how about we make some burgers? Yeah?"

"I take it this is something I'm going to have to look up on the internet myself?" She asked, just to watch him squirm a bit more, before taking pity. "Burgers sound good, honey. C'mon, Sam, that couch isn't going to swallow you. I was wondering, could I get some newspapers to read this afternoon?"

"Yeah," Sam coughed. "Ok. We can run into town and get some—it's just not the same, reading them on the laptop."

She'd asked for newspapers mainly as a distraction but also because she wanted some outward evidence that the world continued on outside their little bubble; and once she had them, once she saw the hunt, she knew she had to get out of this place, clear her head some.

Only Sam and Dean came with her, of course—she didn't know why she had even thought they wouldn't. Two days straight in the even tighter confines of the car with them, trying not to stare at muscular biceps and legs, smelling their half-familiar, wholly male odors, wasn't letting her think clearly about _anything_. Sam conscientiously gave up the front seat for her without saying a word, and although it was true she'd always ridden there with John, she would almost have preferred the back seat if it had meant she could have had the space to herself.

But no, Sam stretches out in the back seat with such a studied air of wanting to be there that she can't make a thing of it, and then once she starts trying to think how to express a preference, her eyes catch Dean's and she recalls that first long look they exchanged over the back seat. She was remembering all the sex she and John had had there, and she could see it click when Dean realized she was thinking about sex in the backseat, and immediately on the heels of that look, came to her the sure knowledge that Dean had his own good memories of sex in this backseat. So there they had been, both standing there looking at each other and thinking about sex. 

Parent-child relationships weren't supposed to look like this. 

It almost wasn't even shocking, later, ghost burned and headed (home) back to Kansas, what she saw when she came around the outside corner of the gas station, looking for the bathrooms. Finding instead Sam pressing Dean up against the wall, locked intensity in the grip of his hands in Dean's short hair, at the back of his neck, one of Dean's hands resting at Sam's waist, fingertips sliding smoothly under the belt of his jeans. There was no distance between them at all, breathing each other's breath. 

If you'd asked her ten seconds ago, Mary would've said she'd had too many shocks, too recently, to feel anything more, no matter what. Maybe that's why there was a funny twisting in her gut that she didn't want to think about too much. It wasn't nausea. Maybe she'd just been waiting for the other shoe to drop, after all; she'd tried so hard for her perfect life, her normal life. Where she could be a perfect wife, the perfect mother. That life had burned on the ceiling three decades ago, and this was the rubble of it: lives burned hard, charred and twisted. 

Sam has turned to look at her, his stance in front of Dean subtly becoming protective; she wonders how he might suppose her a threat, and then she sees Dean's eyes, afraid, looking like she might snatch the world away from him, and it makes perfect sense.

It doesn't matter what she's feeling. Whether it's revulsion, disappointment, or pure lust. She makes herself take a step forward, and another, and pass them to get to the door with "Women" on it which was her original goal.

She knew how it was, coming of age hunting. John hadn't been her own first, not by a long shot. You had to take comfort where you could find it—there was no point waiting for something better, she'd thought at sixteen. But then she had met John, and he'd become the one she'd wanted to spend the rest of her life with, the one who could make her life better than she'd ever dared hope, before she'd met him. 

And for a time, a sweet, halcyon decade, she'd been _out_ , she and John had written their own story, one without monsters or madness. 

But now the undead abomination is her, and no matter how broken her family is now, she thinks, it is still _hers_ and she will cleave only to what is left of it, forsaking all else.

She finishes in the gas station bathroom and walks composedly out to the car. Sam and Dean are no longer clinched on the wall, thankfully, but waiting at the car, Dean hovering by the driver's door, restless tapping of his hands betraying nerves, Sam waiting stone-still by the back.

"My turn to drive," she decides out loud. Dean falls back, circles around to the passenger side. She feels almost as twitchy as him, but she only presses the gas a little too hard and turns the music a little too loud. She'd like to go for a run, pound out the miles until there's only white noise in her head. She'd like to get into a fight with some asshole in a bar or some monster needing killing, punch or stab or just beat them into the ground with her blood pounding in her ears. 

She'd like a good fuck, big strong arms surrounding _her_ , nice hard dicks eager to please, but there're bad ideas and then there are worse ones.

She's not going to get any of that.

She has to leave, she thinks, clearly. She'll drive back to their home with them but then she has to get out. Not forever, no: they're family and she'll always come back to them. She could never keep herself away for long.

But she has to clear her head. 

Winchesters. Family first. That'll never change. No matter how fucked up she is inside. 

Maybe especially with how fucked up she is inside.


End file.
